Reality
by Ariana Raven
Summary: One-shot, Molly Hooper's perspective. When something unexpected happens during an adventure with Sherlock, Molly's more than a little reluctant to believe it, and for good reason. Sherlock Holmes, admitting fault? Only in her wildest dreams.


He leans closer. I'm not sure why. His eyes are narrowed as he stares intently into my face, but they don't dart around like they usually do when he's making observations. They simply stay fixed on mine. The space is small, he smells like heaven, and I am getting very uncomfortable. I feel like I should say something to dispel the mounting tension, but my throat's gone so dry. Everything is suddenly so electric—no, it's not! What am I thinking?

I swallow hard, grit my teeth together, trying to keep myself grounded.

"Sherlock," I croak.

"Yes?"

He's not listening, I can tell. He's just leaning even closer, far too close. I can feel his breath on my lips. Wasn't he supposed to be above all this? He had better not be messing with me.

"Sherlock," I say again.

"What?" he snaps, annoyed but unmoving.

"You're invading my personal space."

"A brilliant observation, Molly. You astound me."

"You're not being very nice," I squeak, terrified at my own bravery in calling him out on his rudeness for once.

He ignores me, reaching out to play with a strand of my hair that's escaped its fishtail braid. Running tends to do that to one's hairdo, I remind myself absently. Better pick a less high-maintenance one next time. But then again, I hadn't exactly been going for functional when I'd gotten ready this morning, as my plans for the day had been quite different than his.

"Has it occurred to you that I am doing so on purpose?" Sherlock purrs, reclaiming my wandering attention.

"What? Doing what?" I frown.

"Oh, do keep up, will you? You said I was invading your space. Has it occurred to you that I'm doing so intentionally?"

"Yes, a–as a matter of fact, it has," I stammer. "But I—well, I've been looking for a different sort of explanation, because you aren't—you don't..."

"Slow down, Molly, you're getting quite flustered," he murmurs calmly as his fingers continue to toy with my hair.

"Well, maybe I wouldn't be that way if a single thing you did made sense!" I exclaim.

"And how am I not making sense?" Sherlock drawls. He is infuriatingly self-possessed, as usual, something which only fuels my exasperation.

"This," I sigh inarticulately, gesturing to our situation. "This is not you. Are you all right? Did I miss something important?"

"Ah, well. You see," he replies, looking slightly sheepish for the first time. "It seems you have."

And suddenly I can't speak to reply any more, because his warm, delicious lips are pressed against mine with absolutely no warning. I make some kind of strangled noise in my throat as one of his hands softly cups the back of my neck while the other pulls me flush against him. My eyes are wide open, bulging almost out of their sockets with shock, but Sherlock's are closed, and he is still kissing me. Unconsciously, my lids flutter shut and my fingers steal upwards to tangle in his curls, because I'm stunned and my brain isn't working and, at the moment, I can't think of a reason for them not to. Then, as suddenly as it began, the kiss is over.

"There, you see!" he declares, gesturing breathlessly. "You have not been observing. If I were in your situation, it would be painfully obvious to me. It's all so plain in front of you, but you just don't think to look for it because it's not what you expect to see!"

"Don't," I gasp, feeling tears prick unexpectedly at my eyes. "Don't be cruel, Sherlock. I'm not...I won't be one of your experiments anymore. Just stop."

I shove at his chest, desperate now, unwilling to stand here any more while he toys with me like this. The old Molly, the one who turned into a trodden mouse and let the dashing detective walk all over her, has turned tail and fled for the moment. This Molly just wants to go home, where she can curl up in bed with Toby and forget this horrible night ever happened, and she doesn't care how she gets there.

But Sherlock doesn't let me aside. He simply stands there with a blank expression on his face. I almost burst out laughing at the sight, because when is Sherlock Holmes ever surprised?

"Molly," he says slowly. "I don't think you understand."

"What don't I understand, Sherlock?" I ask, the words coming out hard and bitter. "You've made yourself abundantly clear on matters between us. And I'm sorry, I really am. I'm sorry that I ever assumed, when I first met you, that you were like the rest of us, that you weren't unattainable. I've learned my mistake, though, so you don't need to rub it in any more."

"No," he groans regretfully, catching my hands in his. "Oh, Molly, you've got it all wrong, can't you see? It's my fault, isn't it? I've been so unkind to you."

Those last words freeze me where I stand. Sherlock Holmes, admitting to fault? Apologizing? This can't be actually happening. I'm asleep again, of course I am. It's another one of those dreams I have nearly every night, the ones that have refused to leave me even after I gave up my foolish hopes.

"You're right," I say numbly. "I don't understand. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying...I'm sorry. And if you don't mind, I would like to try to remedy my mistake. Think of it as a second chance of sorts. I know it's not something I deserve, but can you give that to me?"

"Yes," I breathe, my lips trembling as they break into a wide smile. "Oh, yes. Sherlock, yes."

And suddenly, courageously, I finally dare to believe it. He actually means what he says, I know he does. I know it for certain the instant I see his answering smile spread across his face. Then he pulls me close again, and everything is perf—

"Molly!" a loud voice booms in my ear. I jump violently, heart hammering. What's going on? Where am I?

"Molly!" the voice calls again, and something pokes me in the side of the head. I squint one eye open to see Sherlock leaning over me, instead of in my arms, where I could swear he was just seconds ago. Wait a moment...

"Ah, good, you're awake," he says, straightening up. "I need you to visit the chemist's for me; I'm running out of supplies for my experiments. I have a list for you after you get changed. Be quick about it, please: some of the specimens are starting to deteriorate."

Then he strides out of my room, leaving me to slouch wearily out of bed, cursing the day I first let my imagination run away with me in the manner that's led to dreams like the one I've just been jolted out of. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand this situation.

And I know it's not really his fault, but next time Sherlock needs to fake his death, he'll have to find his own living quarters.

**A/N: Bahahaha! Poor Molly. I did a very mean thing to her. But still, if one of the popular (and most interesting) theories is correct and Sherlock's staying with her post-Reichenbach, then I can totally imagine something like this happening. Still, she's one of my favorite characters on the show, so I couldn't resist featuring her in this little fluffy ficlet. :) And then my inner troll came out, and that ending happened...**


End file.
